


Half Tales Be Truths

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [51]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Family, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7799995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew was no fool; Paul had told Christopher that again and again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Tales Be Truths

‘Andrew.’

Something in Foyle’s voice stops Paul halfway down the stairs. 

‘I’m not -- trying to tell you what to do, Dad, but --’ 

‘You were worried I was spending too much time alone.’

‘This just… It isn’t what I had in mind.’

‘Really?’ Foyle’s voice is an exercise in bland. ‘I think the timing worked out rather perfectly.’

‘Dad--’

‘Andrew.’

‘I just -- I imagined -- this -- isn’t what I pictured.’ Andrew’s voice is awkward, almost pained, and Paul grips the bannister so tightly his fingernails hurt. He’d known this was coming. Andrew was no fool; Paul had told Christopher that again and again and again. 

It wasn’t as though they were _obvious._ He flattered himself that through four years they’d kept themselves very quiet. Sam had figured it out, he was sure; cynically, he knows it is in her interest to keep quiet but he prefers to think that she is happy for them. The longer he knows her, the more likely that interpretation seems to be. 

Andrew is something else entirely. 

Christopher had told Paul a little about that friend of Andrew’s in the squadron -- the one who had requested to fly a suicide mission rather than face Andrew or the military police. Even through Christopher’s lack of desire to implicate his son, it had been fairly clear to Paul that Andrew’s reaction had not been a kindly one. He supposed shock and disbelief would account for part of it. And there is, of course, a great difference between a friend, someone his own age, someone Andrew had always been on equal terms with, and his own father but -- well, Paul had hoped that the boy might simply leave the question alone. 

The rental agreement between him and Foyle is perfectly legal; his own house has been leased for two years now by the same young couple -- it isn’t as though anything they say about the situation is _un_ true. 

It just isn’t _entirely_ true.

He hesitates for a second, then softly makes his way back up the stairs and into the room called _his_ bedroom which he hasn't used as such in years and has now been sleeping in for the best part of a week. It doesn’t really suit him as a room -- he can’t get the image of how he first saw it out of his mind, with Andrew’s model planes hanging from the ceiling and the feeling of it being somehow an empty space. There’s still a feeling of cold about it although he’s sure any actual temperature difference is only in his mind.

He had left the bedside light on when he walked out and now it shows a rather bare room: there’s the bed, a table and a mirror, a desk pushed in a corner, a small bureau with a row of books on the top. There’s another bookcase, very well-filled, by the door, but that’s all. It’s _just_ about believable that this is a regularly-used bedroom and he’s been careful to keep the door closed so it can’t be inspected. Andrew is sleeping in the room next door that looks out over the street; they had done a quick housecleaning, tidying away Christopher’s fly-tying gear and some odds and ends from where Paul was starting to experiment with drawing again. Paul had gone so far as to fill one of the shelves by the window with books to make it look more like a regularly lived-in space.

But he can’t even begin to think of how many little signs there are all over the house that these are not the usual arrangements. He has no idea if Andrew has had cause to look in his father’s bedroom -- and they had done a careful cleaning -- but who knows what he and Foyle are so used to seeing that they no longer think of it. Not to mention what Andrew might feel when he sees his his childhood space rearranged; God only knows what tiny details he remembers -- fondly or otherwise -- that neither Paul nor Foyle knew about, little things from living here with his parents that Paul has either unknowingly disrupted or, worse, recreated.

And that’s just thinking about these two rooms: then there’s the rest of the house… Paul sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes, then back through his hair. It’s too late now anyway. 

He pulls the door half-way shut -- Tweed will fuss if she can’t get in when she wants to -- and sits back down on the bed against the pillows, stretching his legs out and picking up his book. He can still hear voices from downstairs, but they’re just sound, he can’t make out any words.

* * *

Foyle stands for a minute with his hand over the lock of the door. Then he turns back into the sitting room and pours two fingers of whiskey. He looks at the drink for a moment and goes back to his chair. 

He sits and studies the empty chair opposite. 

Despite what he knows Paul thinks, Foyle had always known he wasn’t going to escape this conversation. He had hoped it might be -- better than this. Andrew has a generous spirit, even if he doesn’t always pay attention to it, and Foyle doesn’t think he has been entirely foolish in hoping that it might come to the fore now. If nothing else, Andrew _liked_ Paul -- or, at least, Foyle had always thought he did.

As it is, though, he’s starting to wonder if whatever friendliness he might have seen was just a layer of social nicety, too fragile to survive Andrew’s conservative streak. And had he realised how much stronger that had gotten? Surely Andrew hadn’t always had this intense, defensive _protectiveness_ about him before.

A feeling of personal responsibility would be only reasonable given Andrew’s service -- Foyle had felt it a little himself coming back from the front. He never thought about it as being particularly odd; as far as he was concerned, it was something he inherited from his own father. But with Andrew it seems to have turned into something more than that; his attitude before he left this evening had bordered on the self-righteous which was new.

Even as a child, Foyle remembers, Andrew had always liked to _understand_ what was going on around him. He liked reality to match appearance smoothly, to be self-evident. And he liked appearances to meet his expectations. And, more and more, those expectations were very -- well, they weren’t what Foyle would necessarily call _respectable_ but perhaps _conventional_ would fit well enough. 

Foyle frowns at the glass in his hands. Perhaps he should have known better. He had probably been over-optimistic in hoping Andrew might take stock of the situation and … and what? Congratulate them? Say he was pleased? That might have been a bit much to ask for but surely some acknowledgment that his father was _happy_ for whatever reason wouldn’t have been beyond him. Or he could at least have the grace to stay quiet. There was really no need for him to say anything at all. It isn’t as though Andrew has to live with them or even near them. He thinks of the tin of biscuits Sam had given Paul last Christmas and sighs.

It was simpler when Andrew was younger; he imagines most parents feel like that. Rosalind had been more or less able to interpret them to each other. It was a role she had taken on comfortably, particularly as Andrew grew older and his schedule and Foyle’s began to move apart. She would tell Andrew over breakfast what his father had done the day before and tell Foyle over dinner what Andrew had done at school.

He hates to admit it, even just to himself, but without Rosalind, he and Andrew had had to rediscover how to talk to each other. And while they’d never been absolutely unable to carry on a conversation, Foyle also knows -- with a somewhat bitter certainty now -- that they had never gotten very good at it either. 

Perhaps it’s like that for all families with children when one parent dies; he only knows his own experience. He looks at the glass, turning it between his palms, and regrets for the thousandth time that he hadn’t known better what to do with a grieving, silent small boy. As it had been, the offer to send Andrew to school had come like a guilty relief. It isn’t a pleasant memory and he takes a sip of whiskey to wash it away.

The whiskey tastes vaguely sour and he looks at the glass then sets it aside with a sigh. The confluence of memories is too strong for the actual quality of the liquor, apparently. He’d certainly drunk enough at the time although he doesn’t remember ever being actually drunk. Perhaps Andrew remembers that, too; it’s likely he does -- perhaps it’s that memory provoking his bitterness now even if he doesn’t realise it. Foyle would like to give his son credit for not deliberately setting out to be cruel in retaliation for something done so many years ago. But he knows it can happen; he can’t pretend it doesn’t when he has file after file in his office documenting exactly that. 

There’s something almost fatalistically comforting in that idea. It fits -- it fits very neatly and Foyle grimaces as he realises he’s slotting together pieces as if working out the motive for a crime. 

He shakes his head firmly, sits up straighter, and focuses his gaze on the fire. It’s a helpful habit of thought at times but not now. There’s no crime to be investigated -- although perhaps Andrew might disagree and that’s another sour taste -- and trying to fit the story together as if there is one will do no good.

So, yes, perhaps if, twenty years before, he had known how to take control of events after an entirely different fashion, he wouldn’t now be sitting here with an unaccustomed feeling of powerlessness and the unhappy thought that his son now feels his father is a particularly unpleasant form of criminal. 

And Paul is still upstairs. He’d gone up just after lunch but Foyle is fairly sure he hadn’t meant to stay there the entire afternoon. Andrew hadn’t been quiet; he imagines Paul heard something.

* * *

When Paul wakes up, the bedside light is off, the curtain is half-drawn, and his book is jabbing rather painfully into his ribcage. He closes his eyes and twists backwards on the bed, trying to pull the book free without waking up too much.

‘Careful--’ 

There’s a warm hand flat over his stomach that holds him still, then reaches to slide the book from under him. It lands on the bedside carpet with a dull thud. Paul holds himself still for a minute, then shifts forward, making as much room on the narrow mattress as he can.

‘It’s all right--’ Christopher’s hand presses reassuringly. ‘Just -- don’t move too far backwards without warning, please.’

‘Why are you here? We agreed--’

‘Andrew’s out for the evening. I lent him my key and locked the front door myself.’

‘Ah.’ Paul can’t think of anything else to say. 

‘You heard him this afternoon, I assume?’

Paul winces. ‘A...a little. I was just coming downstairs and--’

‘Yes, I thought that was you.’ 

‘I -- didn’t want to interrupt.’ 

‘No.’ Foyle sounds thoughtful, then Paul feels the rush of a sigh on the back of his shoulder. 

‘Is -- I didn’t --’ Paul stops himself. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Well, what I heard.’

‘You can’t very well eavesdrop in your own house.’

‘No, I mean…’ Paul hesitates.

Foyle is silent for a long moment, then says quietly, ‘You can’t apologize for my son.’ 

Paul presses the heel of one hand against his eyes. After four years, it’s unfair to say he’s been afraid of this all along -- he’d been afraid of a whole raft of things if he’s being honest with himself and most of them have turned out to be nothing more than bogeymen. 

‘He likes rules,’ Foyle goes on. ‘He always did, even as a little boy. He liked -- knowing how things were supposed to be.’ Foyle pauses for a moment, then makes a sound like a soft, unfinished laugh. ‘He liked it even better if things actually _were_ that way.’

‘Can’t imagine where he got that from,’ Paul says before he can stop himself.

‘Mmm.’ Foyle makes some motion with his head that Paul can’t interpret without seeing it. ‘Yes, quite possibly.’

‘With a few key differences, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’ Foyle is silent again for a few moments. ‘You do know that it doesn’t matter.’ 

It isn’t clear to Paul if he’s being asked a question or told something. ‘What doesn’t matter?’

‘Andrew. Well--’ Foyle makes a movement Paul guesses is meant as a shrug. ‘What he says.’

‘It -- could--’ Paul says cautiously. He doesn’t want to say outright that he’s wondered if Andrew really _would_ go to the police. Not _here,_ of course, but--

‘No. It doesn’t.’ 

‘But--’ The anxiety is abruptly a weight he can’t ignore and Paul wriggles around in the half-circle of Foyle’s arms until they’re face to face. ‘But it _does_ , Christopher, it --’

Foyle shakes his head. ‘No. He’s angry with _me_ \-- he won’t go to anyone else.’

Paul bites the inside of his lip. The worry about exposure is really only half of it but he doesn’t know what words to use to describe the other half. He’s seen the worst that can happen to families with a stepparent -- not that he _is,_ really, a stepparent and whether that makes it worse or better he doesn’t know -- and he doesn’t think Andrew is likely to run off to Paris or start drinking more than he can hold and going on long angry rants to strangers in pubs, but there are more slowly corrosive things, too. Five years from now, he doesn’t want to look back and realise his presence was the common theme in fewer visits, strained conversations--

‘Paul, stop.’ Foyle’s thumb smoothes over his eyebrow, bringing his attention sharply back to the present. He presses his palm over Paul’s cheek and meets his gaze squarely. ‘Please trust me. Andrew and I-- We have argued before.’

 _But not about something like this,_ Paul thinks and does not say. But what can he say? He can’t know what Andrew’s going to do -- he doubts Andrew knows that himself. And what could he do? Offer to leave? He’s selfish enough not to give that more than a few seconds’ consideration. 

‘This isn’t even the worst argument we’ve ever had,’ Foyle says, his eyes sharp on Paul’s face.

Paul knows he’s waiting and also knows he _doesn’t_ know the words that would make clear the nebulous tangle of worry in his chest, so he swallows hard against it, telling himself firmly that he wouldn’t have thought of anything Foyle hasn’t -- and Foyle is _here._ Not still arguing with Andrew; not alone in the sitting room or down at the pub or taking his frustration out on the weeds in the garden: _here._ ‘So what _is_ the worst argument you’ve had?’

Foyle smiles, the expression tiny and tired but there. ‘Biggles and Ginger.’

Paul laughs, hearing himself a little too loud, and buries his face against Foyle’s shoulder. ‘I should have guessed!’ He can’t help his fingers tightening in the folds of Foyle’s shirt and, in response, he feels Foyle’s hands flatten over his shoulderblades, pulling him forward the last few inches so they’re as close as they can be without undressing. He closes his eyes, focuses on the smell of starched cotton and warm skin.

‘Well.’ Foyle moves his shoulder in something like a shrug. ‘He never showed a proper appreciation of Raffles either.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _[Antony and Cleopatra](http://www.bartleby.com/70/4522.html)_.
> 
> A thousand thanks to my ever-patient betas, [elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane) and [Kivrin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin).
> 
> And in case you, like Andrew, lack a proper appreciation of Raffles, the gentleman thief who premiered in _Cassell's Magazine_ in 1898, just in time to catch the eye of a young Christopher Foyle, [you can find out more here](https://www.strandmag.com/the-magazine/articles/raffles-the-gentleman-thief/). The stories are really worth reading, particularly if you enjoy Sherlock Holmes; they're a tremendous amount of fun and mostly out of copyright so [freely available online!](https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/h/hornung/ew/)
> 
> I can't say the same about the [Biggles](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biggles) books, staples of the post- _Boy's Own Paper_ genre though they are -- I _was_ amazed to find out there were so many of the things!


End file.
